


Not Without a Bang

by NeverComingHome



Category: Scooby Doo - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 21:14:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2555951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverComingHome/pseuds/NeverComingHome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene has a type, Velma gets a clue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Without a Bang

The first time Irene sees her she's collecting information on the father of a mobster she does business with. He would no doubt be un-amused by her intentions to carry out the sort of blackmailing his family is most famous for. The van is bright, but doesn’t draw her attention until a woman gets out of it with a dog at her side. She feeds it half a treat then holds a piece of paper beneath its nose before letting go of the leash. The dog sprints off while she taps her foot, blatantly observing the mansion. Irene adjusts the scope on her binoculars, waiting for the sound of gunshots with a twinge of regret.

So young to die.

Instead a man yelps as the dog drags him out by the collar and three others jump out of the van to grab him while squad cars flood the street. Someone from the van with long shaggy hair wraps an arm around the woman who is now speaking to the officers. She reads his lips,

“Nice going Velma, like, another case solved all thanks to you.”

She tells herself quite firmly there is nothing to be interested in.

~*~  
Scans aren’t nearly as fulfilling as the original. Velma works her glasses up her nose again, feeling positively high at the scent of so many old books, neatly dusted covers with touch starved pages between, all spread out in a twisted maze. The man who ran the archives had seemed loathe to both leave her alone in it and miss his appointment. She had papers from various chiefs and constables as well as the anonymous, but influential client who had sent for Mystery Inc. with the promise to aid their investigation no questions asked. In the end he pressed the key into her hand, hissed, “Two hours, Ms. Dinkley. Not three or half past. Two.” then scurried off. She found the page the gang needed and now idles, backpack unzipped in case she needs to borrow and promptly return anything.

Well maybe not _promptly._

“Jinkies!”

Irene bites the side of her tongue, closing the jacket over her corset. “You’re not Albert Ethan.”

“Astute observation, are those priceless artifacts you’re sitting on?”

She’s referring to the books Irene had fashioned into a sort of chair, plagiarized versions Albert had given her as payment for a years worth of services. She’d been laughed out of the auction house when she attempted to sell them. She picks one up and reaches into the pocket of her coat for a lighter.

“Where is he?”

“I don't know, but that is the last remaining copy of-”

The flame kisses the edge of the cover, slowly turning the red black. “You're lying. Albert Ethan. Where is he?”

But Velma has already noticed the minute curls of plastic. Meant for easy handling it was discontinued because it wore out the publisher’s mark that used to be printed on the outside of the book before the company was bought out. Velma is only aware she’s reciting this information loud enough to be heard when Irene cuts her off.

“You’re the detective. The one who works with the mutt. How far you’ve strayed from your ‘Mystery Machine’.”

“My friends-”

“The door locks from the inside. What’s that in your hand? The only key? Oh, this is rich, you’re here to solve the Vivaldi attacks aren't you?”

“The only library in the country with access to the myth and there was something fishy about Albert. His real name is Evan and he was jailed for selling fake Dali’s, but got off on a technicality. For the right price he’d loan any of these books out to anyone.”

“But?”

“Someone started conning him. They made copies, sold them on the side as originals then returned it without Evan knowing a thing. Except,” Velma looks down at the folder still in hand, “they left a page of the copy in with original sent back on accident. When Evan found out-”

“-he went after the buyers to find him. Of course.”

“All the victims made donations to a free online ancient literature class traced back to one Mark Savage. All my gang and I needed was the fake page and to hack Savage’s email and send a message to Evan asking for a meeting. If my calculations are correct Fred is shoving him into the back of a police car right.” Irene approaches, smiling when Velma takes an immediate and clumsy step backward. “Now. What are you doing here?”

“Proving myself wrong.”

She snaps a picture and is gone, the only sound in the library that of Velma’s breathing as she races through the stacks to find the stranger. She makes it to the door and runs headfirst into Daphne who just as breathlessly describes the takedown of Evan. Now all they need is to collar Mark Savage and the case will be closed.

Velma nods, fingers grasping at the pavement for her glasses which she puts on just in time to miss the window of a limousine rolling up. Irene watches her, mobile pressed to her ear.

“I want to know everything about the woman in that picture.”

~*~  
It’s Daphne who ultimately fills Velma in on Irene Adler. The Vivaldi case had left her curious but clueless about the scarcely clad woman who knew her without introduction. She hadn’t thought to tell the others about meeting her let alone ask for their help in hunting her down. Evan’s computer and work had been seized and with the mystery solved there was no reason for her to see any information he had stored that would give her any hints.

Not to mention afterward everyone agreed on a well deserved break. Shaggy helps Scooby balance on a skim board while Fred tosses a football with a group of likewise tanned and athletic uber jocks who tend to magically appear whenever he steps foot on dry sand. Daphne meanwhile is sunbathing, head swaying to the music coming from her earphones when she gets a text and rolls her eyes at it.

“We left London just in time. I don’t know why daddy keeps asking me to make nice with Irene Adler. You know she does sex things,” Daphne lowers her voice, “for money.”

“Why would he want you to meet her in the first place?”

“Well she’s got a bajillion and one connects. Famous, related to people who still wear crowns type connects if you believe the rumors. You really don’t know who she is?”

“Oh, gee, what do I care about sex and greed and politics, Daph?”

Daphne shrugs, conceding the point and preparing to fill her in when her phone buzzes again and she groans. Apparently Irene made a very convincing argument (read: a big fat check) for them to pay a visit.

~*~  
Kate is sweet and they warm up to her at once. Irene recently bought a bit of land to occupy herself with until her time in the London limelight was over. The first wing had been constructed without interruption, but after that the on site work injuries and sightings had began to pour in. Maids insisted they saw glowing faces, construction workers disappeared in a flash of light only to wander dazed and confused out of the forest surrounding the property, late at night screams and the sound of malfunctioning machinery could be heard.

Apparently there used to be a horror theme park at which a dozen or so innocent lives had been lost at the hands of the owner who used cheap supplies for the roller coasters. The owner had escaped before she could be charged and the workers were convinced this angered the spirits who took out their revenge on anyone who tried to build on the cursed land

“They’ve told everyone and now there isn’t a company on earth who will come near here. Irene is furious obviously, but I read about the Glasgow Goblin and suggested we call you.”

Fred steps forward, shaking her hand with a grin and already looking around for clues. “We’re on the case Miss don’t you worry. Let’s get to work, gang!”

~*~  
Long story short the original owner bought a new face in preparation to buy the land back and resurrect the theme park when Irene had bought it directly from the state. She hired some old friends to make it appear haunted in hopes Irene would give up and resell perhaps cheaper than she bought it.

“I was so close to getting away with it, if it weren’t for you fu-”

“That’s quite enough, thank you.”

Irene runs a hand through her hair, having woken up to the sound of the trap going off. Security guards are just behind her to take the handcuffed and still glowing culprit. All save for Velma are shaking Irene’s hand, rattling off how they figured it out and breaking down what really happened to her employees.

“Velma, is it?” Irene’s smirk is teasing as she steps forward and this time Velma doesn’t move. “Fred tells me you were the one who found out my real estate agent was behind this. I’d love to hear how you did.”

“Uh, jeepers, it’s not all that impressive.”

“Oh and humble too.” She glances at Kate. “I do believe this calls for an early breakfast, why don’t you show our guests to the kitchens and allow them to choose a suitable menu.”

“Like did you say kitchen _s_? As in more than one? As in we can eat whatever we want from multiple fridges and cupboards until the sun comes up?” Irene gives a dismissive wave that doesn’t mean no, “Zoinks, you heard the lady boss, Kate, like lead the way.”

And because they all have no sense of loyalty in the face of all nighters and rumbling stomachs, Fred, Daphne, Scooby and Shaggy hardly think twice when Irene places a hand on the small of Velma’s back and leads her into a study. Once inside Irene presses a button on the inside cover of _Justine_ and Velma holds on to a chair as the room shifts abruptly to the left. When she steadies herself she finds the door replaced by a solid brick wall.

“So we’re not disturbed," she explains unnecessarily.

Velma swallows, backing up towards the desk as Irene gets closer. “Too late. Definitely disturbed.”

She smells like the fantasy of what sex smells like and Velma wishes she never heard the term “recreational scolding” before this because it’s exactly what it feels like when Irene tsks her nervousness and pushes her gently into the armchair behind the desk. Velma had been positive Irene was wearing tights or something thin but existent beneath the robe, but is proven wrong. When Irene sits on her lap skin brushes skin and the short sleeves ride up her arms when she drapes them across Velma’s shoulders.

“What do you want with me?”

Maybe it’s Irene’s hair moving back and forth against her neck, but her brain hauls itself into working order long enough to process the sensory information it’s receiving as lips, breath and a quick brush of teeth: slightly crooked, jaw always tensed and most probably a teeth grinder like in that story she read on the drive up.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Sorry?”

She pulls back to study Velma’s face, curiosity barely winning over lust. “How did you know it was my real estate agent?”

Velma gives her the rundown because it’s the only thing she can focus on that makes sense. Irene listens, nods in all the right places, and asks questions that lead to explanations of past mysteries. When Irene asks if she ever didn’t solve a case her phone goes off (nutella crepes!! Where ru!!- Shags) and she remembers she is sitting in a hidden study with a nude dominatrix on her lap talking about ghost stories.

“I should go.”

“It’s been so long since I’ve wondered about a person, Ms. Dinkley, you've no idea. I prayed for someone…interesting and you appeared with your orange skirt and misfit band of toys like the light at the end of a very long tunnel. Tell me, are you really satisfied hunting down monsters in a rusty old van?”

Whatever spell Irene was attempting to cast over Velma breaks instantly at her words. She lifts the arms from her shoulders, grinning for the first time since she walked into the room.

“Absolutely.”

~*~  
Irene doesn’t give up so easily. She stages crop circles in her downtime, stirs up old legends and waits for a bite. She’s not sure if Mystery Inc is really so bogged down with work or Velma is intentionally avoiding her, but each time the case is solved by local authorities she can't help but be disappointed.

“Stop making people think you’re a succubus.”

“How do you know I’m not?” Irene smiles at the resulting sigh from the other end of the phone.

“Succubi notoriously attack their prey while they sleep. All your clients admitted or tested positive for some form of stimulant: coffee, little blue pills, cocaine, energy drinks, etcetera, all easily laced.”

“But how can you know for certain?”

“In their natural form Succubi are commonly depicted as naked, lewd, horned demons,” she recites from the book in her lap, shaking her head at the looks sent her way from everyone in the van, “I don’t remember seeing any horns.”

“Mm, and what do you remember seeing, pet?” She chuckles when the line goes dead a few seconds later.

~*~  
When a case leads them back to the Adler estate Velma tells her to cut it out because next time it wouldn't be them showing up to save the day. After confessing to the crime Irene tries to offer her things she can’t get from the open road: a bed with hypoallergenic silk sheets, access to every archive( in every city, on any continent), glasses that will never fall from her face. Irene walks her fingers down Velma’s sweater, lifting it up to touch the skin just above her skirt.

“Among other things…”

“Like?”

“Like.”

Velma gasps, palms flat against the closed door, as she flushes because Irene is kissing her now and her hands are demonic forces of nature that pinch and caress and rub all at once in places she only pays attention to when the shower water is hot or they can afford to sleep in separate rooms. She whines, but doesn’t beg, falls onto her back on the nearest couch and moans words she doesn't remember learning into Irene’s skin.

When it’s all said and done and Velma is pulling her skirt up Irene stops her and kisses her knuckles.

“You never answered my question.”

“I forget.”

“What do you want with me?”

“You’re the detective.” She snakes Velma’s phone from her pocket and deletes the confession without breaking eye contact. “Figure. It. Out.”

Who knows where the trap door leads that opens beneath Irene’s feet. When Velma meets up with the others she tells them Irene got away.

“In more ways than one,” she doesn’t add.


End file.
